Chapter 17 - The Ghost Facility
Hangar 14 loomed out of the darkness like a black leviathan against the gray sheets of rain. Built during the early days of the Cold War to house experimental reconnaissance craft, its corrugated steel walls were thick, reinforced with lead lining that effectively swallowed any stray electronic signals—a natural dead zone on the base map.
The flatbed truck rolled to a silent halt behind a row of concrete blast barriers fifty yards from the main hangar doors. Through the driving rain, the massive silhouette of an unmarked cargo transport plane sat on the auxiliary tarmac, its four turbofan engines whining at low idle, kicking up twin vortexes of mist that churned like ghostly whirlwinds under the tarmac floodlights.
Parked beside the open cargo ramp of the aircraft were the three black Suburbans.
"Look," Captain Miller pointed through the water-streaked windshield.
Contract personnel in dark tactical gear were rapidly loading olive-drab hard cases—the kind used to transport classified server racks and tactical cryptography equipment—into the belly of the plane. Standing near the bottom of the ramp, sheltered under a large black umbrella held by an armed operative, stood Deputy Undersecretary Vance. He was still wearing his impeccably tailored dark wool overcoat, but his calm, bureaucratic smile from the banquet had been replaced by a snarling, frantic urgency as he checked his watch.
And standing next to him, wrapped in a floor-length fur coat that was entirely absurd against the wet concrete of an active runway, was Eleanor Carter.
Even from fifty yards away, her posture was unmistakable. Her head was held high, her spine rigid, her silver-streaked hair swept back with aristocratic perfection. She wasn't being coerced. She wasn't being held at gunpoint. She was directing one of the contractor operatives, pointing her gloved hand toward a silver aluminum briefcase that had just been removed from the trunk of the lead sedan.
"That's the master ledger," General Hayes said, his knuckles turning white on the handguard of his rifle. "Every transaction. Every offshore routing number. Every political payoff from the last six years is in that briefcase."
"General," I said, my voice eerily calm, stripped of all fury, stripped of all humanity. "We have six hostiles on the ramp. Four loading the belly. Two flanking Vance."
"They're heavily armed, Colonel," Hayes warned, glancing at me with deep concern in his battle-hardened eyes. "And they aren't bound by rules of engagement. If we open this door, we fire to neutralize."
"Understood," I said.
May you like
I turned to Daniel in the back of the truck. He was curled up against the spare tire, shaking violently, his eyes glazed with the realization of what he had confessed.
"Stay in the truck, Daniel," I said coldly. "If you run, you'll die in the dark. Watch what your mother bought with your family name."
